


the crown is gone (but its shadow is still there)

by HorribleThing



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 09:16:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3169523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HorribleThing/pseuds/HorribleThing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Midnight City is filled with people, and all of them know her in one way or another.</p>
<p>Anonymity is a difficult thing when you used to be Queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the crown is gone (but its shadow is still there)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [conceptofzero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/conceptofzero/gifts).



> As a warning: The first section has violence that is not graphic and mostly implied, however it is very cruel. If you're sensitive to something like that I'd suggest skipping the first part. Other than that there's alcohol and sex is briefly talked about but not depicted in any graphic way.

 

 

**One: The Damnable Lech.**

“Hey Queenie, so kind of you to grace us with your presence.”

There is a man with his arm draped over her shoulder.  His breath is sour as he slurs the words into her ear.  In the past he wouldn’t have even dreamed of touching her.  

Oh how things have changed.

On another night, she wouldn’t waste her time on him.  He’s not worth her effort.  Not even worth her attention.  But tonight, her mood is foul.  Tonight Slick’s gang had made them botch a mission and the taste of failure is still in her mouth.  She’s often found that the only thing that will wash it out is blood.

It’s easy to grab a liquor bottle left on the bar and swing it into his head.  Nothing quite shuts someone up like blunt force trauma.  Well, death maybe.  But while firearms would certainly provide a much more elegant solution, something so fast won’t be enough to fix her mood.

He moans, wordless on the floor.  It’s punctuated with a sharp groan as she digs the heel of her shoe in between two of the plates of his carapace on his abdomen, the sharp spike of it digging into the tender flesh there.  And they say that heels like these aren’t practical.

“Did you really think that was a good idea?  Was there really any part of your pathetic little mind that thought, ‘Oh yes.  This will go over well’?” she asks him.  He moans but doesn’t respond, doesn’t try to fight her.  “This bar isn’t even Felt territory.  This bar is mine.  I wanted it and I took it.  Simple as that.  Now what I want is to see you suffer.  That will be simple, too.”

After one last dig of her heel, Snowman steps of off him and leans over the bar.  She takes a bottle of vodka (The cheap stuff.  This idiot doesn’t deserve better.) and pours it over him, making sure to get some in his eyes, and enough in his mouth to make him sputter.  Then she reaches into her coat and pulls out her cigarette case and a match.  Lighting it, she takes a long drag and taps the ashes onto the man’s prone body.  His eyes widen in horror, but he seems too stunned to move.

“Don’t worry.  Alcohol burns fast and clean.  This isn’t the part that will really hurt.  That will come later.”

Snowman drops her cigarette and watches the flames.

It does make her feel better.

 

**Two: The Mousy Novelist and the Meddlesome Nurse.**

While buying strings for her electric violin:

“Is that… is that her?”

“Shhhhh!”

“There’s no way that it’s her!”

“Stop staring!”

But they don’t stop.  She doesn’t mind, but she wonders how they could possibly think that she can’t hear them.

  

**Three: The Footwear Clerk.**

Stitch can make an evening gown out of a potatosack, but there are certain things in her wardrobe that he just can’t provide.  He’s “a tailor not a cobbler.”  She’d like to correct him and inform him that what he’s thinking of is a cordwainer, but the effort would be wasted.  There are no cordwainers in Midnight City, at least none that are practicing their craft.  Instead she has to stoop to a level she never thought she would back when she was wearing the crown: mass produced footwear.

It’s the little things about her exile that are the hardest to face.  The small things she never took the time to actually think she would have to manage.  It’s always the small things, seeing as loss of power was never actually an issue.  She no longer has the crown, but her role is just as important.  Just not so important that she doesn’t have to do her own shopping.

At least the shop owner has the courtesy to have her visit by appointment.

He should.  He used to be the one that made her shoes for her.

(It gives her a sense of pleasure that even in Slick’s city there are still those that will take her side.  It’s not a noble or pure sort of satisfaction, but she has never, ever claimed that she was above being petty.)

She fades from nothingness into his shop an hour after closing time and he smiles at her.  Tired, but still a smile.  “Right on time as always, Your Highness.  But of course I would never expect anything less from you.”

“I’ve told you at least a dozen times before that I’m not a queen now.”

“And I will always tell you this: they can take your crown, but you will always be the Queen.  Jewels and a throne don’t make you what you are,” he shuffles towards a stack of boxes then.  “I have your standard of course, but I think these ones will fit you better than the last pair of pumps you picked for going out.  I must say, I think they’re very stylish.  And the heels are vicious things.”

Every time she offers to pay, and every time her turns her down.  But protection of his shop is a decent way to return the favor.

 

**Four: The Genial Watchman.**

“Oh, that jazz combo is fantastic.”

“Really?”  He stares at her, looks down at his record, and then looks back up at her like he can’t believe that she’s right in front of him, commenting on his taste in music.

“I'd get the first album too, though.  It’s less polished, but more authentic.  They really were playing for themselves and not their audience then,” she says it and his face lights up with a grin as he realizes that she actually knows what she’s talking about.

“You know, I wanted to hear this because I’d been listening to some of the piano player’s solo work but he does the exact same thing.  All of the popularity goes to his head.”

“He’s better in person as long as he doesn’t throw a fit.”

“I’m always at work when they’re playing, so I never get to go to their gigs.  I’d heard rumors, but it’s really true?”

“The rest of them just go to the bar and have a drink while they wait for him to cool down.”

“Holy shit!  I… uh… I mean… I’m so sorry-”  There are two moments that always occur in interactions like these: the one where they forget who she is, and the one where they remember.  It’s difficult to decide which one stings the most.

“I assure you I’ve heard worse.  Do you happen to know if the bassist’s other group is any good?”

Sometimes she feels like this is the only thing she can “bond” with people over now.  She doubts that they’ll ever talk to each other again, and really it’s probably better for him that way.  But right now she can ignore who she is, and he can too.  They can spend some time talking about something that they both love.  Just for a moment.

 

**Five: The Passionate Activist.**

Snowman likes to go for walks sometimes.  It’s a refreshing change of pace considering that she can go anywhere she wants in almost an instant.  She enjoys the exercise and the sparkle of the lights through the city.  And it’s important to know the lay of the land, especially since the rest of The Felt are too terrified of her to pass on crucial information even when she needs it.  But walking still has its downsides.

“You should be ashamed of yourself!”

This is one of them.

The woman clutches a handful of pamphlets tightly to her chest and briefly trembles with an indignation that Snowman can only assume is righteous.  Her evening had been going so well and now she’ll have to deal with this.

“How can you walk around this city when you’re one of the people tearing it apart?  All you bring is murder and destruction.  Your stupid, terrible gang war has ruined so many lives.  How can you do that and just walk through here?  How can you act like that when you used to be Queen?”  Her voice is loud and shrill and it cracks with emotion.

“Do you still see me as your Queen?” Snowman asks, and the woman sputters in response but doesn’t answer in confirmation.  “Then why should I act like one?  I’m not a queen, so don’t give me the duties of the crown.”

“Besides, I do my best to keep collateral damage to a minimum.  If you want to pursue anyone for murder and destruction, go after Spades Slick.  He’s the one that’s trigger happy… and stab happy.  It’s his city, but he doesn’t care if it burns to the ground as long as he gets what he wants.  If you want something to change, change him.  I don’t even live here.”

She takes the briefest moment to register the shock on the woman’s face before walking on.  Her campaign just might take some interesting turns in the future.  Snowman wonders if the woman will survive it.

 

**Six: The Swaggering Driver.**

“I never thought a queen could get that wild!  Every time you keep surprising me.”  He’s not half bad in bed, but he will not take the hint and shut up.

“And every time you ruin the afterglow by talking,” Snowman says, extracting herself from his arms.  His remark is tasteless, but she’s heard similar lines before from the men that seem to think that bedding her is due to their own prowess.  (The ones that think they’re very, very lucky are more bearable in conversation but sometimes too gentle.  Reverence isn’t always something she wants.)

He continues despite her remark.  Typical.  “But I’ve been wondering about something... are those rumors about Slick going after all your lovers true?”  Lovers?  How disgusting.

“Not entirely.  He’s a busy man with a lot on his plate.  He probably won’t notice if you haven’t bragged too much about it.”  And his face just goes still with terror.  Of course he bragged.  The egotistical ones always do.  Every one of them thinks that he is the exception, and every one of them ends up dead.  (The reverent ones survive.  At least most of them do.)

“Oh?  You have been bragging?  That’s too bad then.”  She slides out from under the sheets and picks up her things.  She fades from the room with him still in bed, just starting to panic and fades into hers before he can question her.  It’s nice that she was starting to get annoyed with him.  It’s always a shame when things have to end like this and she’s still interested.  

 

**Seven: The Nervous Shopperson.**

He does not look up as she passes him on the street.

Every time she walks by him, he looks down.  His eyes on the pavement like he lost something.  He shakes like a frightened animal, but that trait is nothing new.  He was like that when he worked for her.

The Necessitous Stenographer often took notes for her, copying down precisely what was said in large meetings.

He had the gift of being small.  Convenient for his position.  It made him unobtrusive, which was always useful when it came to making people forget that their every word was being logged.  He barely came above her knees and seemed to blend into the walls.  Entirely forgettable to anyone that wasn’t making a point of knowing of his existence.

He had the curse of being small too.  He was practically getting underfoot half the time and others were always shoving him out of the way because he barely even registered as existing.  It made him shake anxiously as a result.  But he always made a point to look at her and greet her with all the proper formalities.

In Midnight City he doesn’t look at her.  Perhaps she really is that frightening now.

Good.

 

**Eight: The Pallid Teller.**

He’s sitting on a bench at the park, and as Snowman nears he just starts crying.  Loud gasping sobs.  It continues until she passes by him, continues until she’s too far away to hear.

He cries, and she doesn’t know why.

Sometimes they cry because she reminds them of their old lives.  Sometimes it’s because they fear who she used to be.  Other times it’s because they fear who she is now.

She doesn’t know why he’s crying, but she does know that it’s weak.  It's a death sentence.  This city will eat him alive if he doesn’t toughen up.

 

**Nine: The Immovable Scrapper.**

Slick burned down her bar.  A shame really.  She was so fond of it, even with the scorch marks and the bloodstains on the linoleum.  All of the seating was comfortable, she liked the location, there was an excellent selection of spirits, and most importantly, she had started to develop a real, concrete reputation there.  Rumors are good and all, but nothing quite compares to the impression you leave when someone sees what you can do with their own two eyes.

This new one is passable so far.  It’s certainly a lot larger.  Snowman isn’t sure how she feels about the social atmosphere (the old place was more of a drink and keep to yourself sort of joint), but a few nights a week a live band plays.  The music is good enough for the crowd to stop being so chatty.  The fact that the bartender pours drinks strong makes things a little better, too.  Tonight is busy though, busier than normal, and she wonders how long she’ll stay.  There’s one space left at the bar so she takes it and hopes that the bartender will work through the crowds of people wanting drinks quickly enough.

The woman next to her is probably part of why there’s so little room left.  She’s a large, solid looking woman, almost as big as Cans, but her laugh seems even bigger.  The strange thing is, she seems incredibly familiar.  Not just in her shape (the ones like this were always guards or military), but in the way she holds herself and speaks amicably with the person to her left.  And then she looks over at Snowman and oddly enough she smiles, warm and friendly.

“Oh!  It’s you!  Never thought I’d see someone as sophisticated as you in this kind of place.”  It’s that little moment, the way she says those words with happiness and not a speck of condescension at all that makes Snowman remember.

“You worked as a guard for me, didn’t you?  The Imposing Sentinel.”  Everyone always knew when she was on guard duty.  It was hard not to hear her.  But she was well liked, even by those that would normally find her behavior indecorous.

“You remembered!  I’m the Immovable Scrapper now.”

“Boxing?”  She must be a nightmare of an opponent.

“Yep.  A girl has gotta make a living how she can.  And I think I’m better in the ring than I ever was standing outside the palace.”  And then the woman’s voice shifts just a little, her joviality briefly fading.  “I’m sorry that I failed you then.  But I have to say that I like the way things are now.”

“And why is that?” she asks, and she can feel herself trying to hard like she doesn't care.

“Now I can sit here with you and buy you a drink!  What do you take?  I’m sure they have to have something classy like champagne at this place.”

“I’ll have a whiskey, neat.  As high end as you feel like springing for.”

“See!  I told everyone that you were my kind of lady!  Hey Bartender, over here!  How can you keep a classy dame like this one waiting?”  The Immovable Scrapper flags down the man, grinning like she’s just met an old friend.  And Snowman can’t stop herself from smiling, too.  Just a little.

Well, not all change is bad.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if the inclusion of footwear will be controversial or not. I debated about it much longer than I should have, but there's enough extra-canonical art that features carapaces with shoes. So I decided to just go with it.
> 
> Besides that I don't really know what else is fanon for the carapace section of the fandom, so I'm really sorry if I committed some sort of faux pas. It was done unknowingly I swear. (I am also sorry for the terrible OC names. I am the worst person in the world at naming things.) 
> 
> But this prompt definitely grabbed me and wouldn't let me consider anything else. It was a fun concept to play with. So thank you!


End file.
